True
by truemizzie
Summary: George dies.  DH SPOILERS.


True

George Weasley died. Normally, wizards did not die until they were much older than he was, far past the one hundred year mark. But George had been sick for a very long time. It hadn't been a secret that grief was the cause of this sickness, and the reason that he allowed it to take over him at the mere age of fifty-eight. The funeral was held a few days after the death, and to everyone's surprise, there were very few tears. There was something about the way that George had continued living through his grief, never stopping for long to feel sorry for himself or to linger too long on the loss that they all considered to be the worst moment in his life. That is, until the last year. The loss was the death of his brother. The death of his Twin. His Twin, Fred Weasley.

In small groups, people left the funeral, each person taking their turn to say goodbye to the tombstone that lay in the graveyard near the Burrow. Little did they know…although they thoroughly hoped…that George Weasley sat on his tombstone, watching them all as they left him to his dead state. It was a privilege for the dead to stay behind and watch their funerals before they were picked up by an angel, to be told of all the perks that heaven had in store for them. George watched his loved ones with a small smile, a smile for the fact that he knew their grieving wouldn't last too long. And then, once they were all gone, he heard what he had been waiting for:

"I hope this funeral was a bit calmer than the last," the voice said behind him. George grinned.

"Well, I don't suppose it's quite as tragic," he replied, still facing away from the voice.

"I'd say it was more."

"How so?"

_"Man Dies of Grief. _Sounds like a scene in a romance novel, if you ask me."

"I should hope not…possibly a good adventure story, I'd say." George's voice was very different from the other. It had a much lower, gruffer sound.

"Corpse looked pretty good though. Well shaven. New dress robes."

"Let's just hope they don't have to dig them up for the next death."

"I didn't think that was a problem anymore."

"You're right. It's not." George nodded and smiled. His family was no longer poor. The voice returned. George wondered what was stopping him from being able to look at where it was coming from.

"Nice location," the voice noted.

"Albeit not very original."

"True. But worthy of the beneficiary."

"Or perhaps just right for him."

"Oh no. The location definitely trumps him."

"Only in the opinion of the location."

"Well, if the beneficiary would turn around, maybe he could agree with the location."

George, instead of turning, tilted his head downward. He read the stone which he sat on. _George Gideon Weasley: Beloved Husband, Father, Son, Brother and Twin. _His head then moved more to the side, where another stone sat. _Fredrick Fabian Weasley: Beloved Son, Brother and Twin. _Along with seeing the stones, he saw his hands, peeking out from the sleeves that had button cuffs on them. They were raw, and starting to become quite wrinkly, more from the sickness than age. George watched his hands.

"I got a little further along than you, didn't I," he said to the voice.

"I like to think of it as me getting off a little easier."

"Well…it wasn't easy, but it was worth it."

"Nah…would've been too hard for me. Too soon to leave it all behind, and that."

"And what you had wasn't too hard to leave?"

"Leaving it was the hardest thing in the world, George."

It was at that moment that George knew he could not turn around. The mention of his name by that voice had been a comfort he had missed for thirty-three years, but when it came it made him realize that those same thirty-nine years would have caused a huge separation between the two, a separation that could not be mended.

"George, you have to look at me. It's time now." The voice was serious, yet still pure with youth.

"What must I do?" George asked. He heard a sigh.

"You have to come with me…to the Mirror."

"A Mirror? Why? I don't understand."

"The Mirror shows you who you truly are. It's a test. It's the time when you get to choose whether you want to stay here…or whether you want to go back."

"You mean…be a ghost?"

"Exactly." He could only hear the voice in one ear. The other was still gone.

"You chose to stay?"

"Come on, George. Follow me."

"I can't. I can't see you."

"Yes, you can. You choose not to see me."

"Well, give me that. Just for a moment longer." There was a moment of calm in which George heard the voice approaching him, its feet making soft footsteps in the grass. He then felt a hand on his shoulder.

They were in a giant room, the stark whiteness of which surprised George. That was all there was. Just white. Until he saw it. The Mirror had not caught his reflection yet, but he knew it would the moment he stepped closer to it. He heard the voice again:

"Stand in front of it."

"I'm not sure that I can yet."

"You need to. Nothing will happen until you see yourself. Your true self."

"My true self is nothing. I have done nothing."

"Then find out. Stand in front of the Mirror and find out if that's really true." George almost moved at this, but stopped himself. It was then that he felt the tears streaming down his cheeks. Tears of absolutely terror for what he would find when he stepped in front of the object. Tears for the knowledge that all he would see was an old man, made older by sickness and hidden grief. Tears for…

"What are you afraid of, George?" the voice broke him from his thoughts. His answer was honest.

"You."

"Me? What's so scary about me?" he heard the voice laughing at this. A real laugh, and one he hadn't heard in far too long…

"It's just…we're not…" George trailed off. His legs were beginning to get sore from standing for so long. He had thought that when you died all of your ailments would leave you, but George now felt just as sick as he had before his final moments. _This must be what he meant by nothing happening…_

"We're not what?"

"We're not identical anymore! I'm…I'm old. And you…you were nineteen then, and you're nineteen now. You're still a boy, while I…I am a frail, sick old man. I grew like this, while you never got a chance to!"

"George, do you remember the last thing you ever said to me?"

"It's played repeatedly in my head for thirty-nine years."

"That's right. You told me you'd see me soon."

"Yes. And I did. Only not the way I wanted to." George remembered seeing Hermione pulling Ron towards him through a huge crowd of people as Ron tried to run from her, screaming words he could not hear. He saw a tall mess of red hair walking towards him. He saw Charlie run to Ron, helping Hermione keep him in the room. Then he saw Charlie notice the slowly moving mop of orange, pulling Ron into a hug the moment after as Hermione watched painfully. Charlie's eyes fell upon George next, and George wondered why they were suddenly so wet. Finally, the hair came into view. It was Percy, and he was carrying…

"It wasn't the way I wanted it either. But you know what? I saw you, too."

"What do you mean?"

"I saw you grieving over me the same way you saw Alicia grieving over you."

"Oh…yes…you would have."

"Yeah. And while your representation of emotion was very flattering-"

"This isn't a joke!"

"I know that, George." The voice had become very solemn all of a sudden. "Stand in front of the Mirror."

"Please…"

"I'll go with you."

George took in a deep breath at the offer.

"Okay."

He put his head down, only willing to see the Mirror when he was right in front of it. He heard the footsteps of the voice following him as he approached the Mirror, the tears still running down his cheeks. Finally, he had reached the spot directly in front of the object.

"Look up."

"I'm afraid."

"Trust me." The voice had its familiar inkling of a smile, which he recognized even without seeing it. George trusted. He looked up.

And there, looking back at him, were two boys each as identical as the other. They each had the same tousled red hair, the same dark freckles…they even had the same two ears. George looked incredulously at the sight before him.

"But…it's not real. It's just an illusion."

"Look at your hands."

George did as he was told. His hands were no longer the weak, wrinkled objects he had seen earlier. They were smooth, with long fingers that were perfect for all of the spells he used to love performing with his Twin. He felt his face, still looking into the Mirror, and his left hand found its way to the side of his head, where he ear now resided, as good as new. His eyes darted to the left of the Mirror, where he could see his Twin's indistinguishable face smiling back at him. Fred spoke to him:

"I saw you, too. I saw you for a long time…thirty-nine years. You never changed, George. Your body got older, you got a lot smarter, and…a lot sicker, unfortunately…but you never changed, not really." Fred's grin grew even larger. "We're the same kids we were before the battle started, before Harry's birthday, when we faced our first real battle. And if you stay here, you can keep that. Forever."

"And Alicia? My children?" George suddenly grew worried.

"You saw them at the funeral. You get to watch over them. You get to keep them company, even if they won't know it."

"But…if I go back, they will know…"

"And when they die, what if they decide to stay? You'll have them for another, say, fifty, sixty years, and then you'll be like Nick. Just another ghost." Fred sighed. "George, I had to wait thirty-nine years for you. I don't want to lose you again…and for good, if you go back."

"I could never change my decision?"

"Never. But if you stay…if you wait for them, and they stay, then we can all be together. Forever." Fred chuckled. "And…let's just say that heaven's a pretty fun place to hang around after a while. You should _see_ some of the stuff I've pulled!"

"Woah, woah, woah…you can prank in Heaven?"

"Well, we weren't blessed with our talent for nothing, Georgie." George laughed, but his face became slightly serious once again.

"And I can still…stay with them? Watch them?"

"You can _guide_ them." Fred's smile faded, but still remained slightly. "I tried to stop you grieving…sometimes, I think it helped a little bit. You could _feel_ me a bit, couldn't you, George?"

"You were at my wedding."

"Your best man. I don't think Ron was too comfortable that day, though."

"But it didn't work. _Man Dies of Grief_ is still the headline."

"Yeah, well…I don't think that'll be a problem this time. They know you're with me."

"Actually, I don't think that would be the most comforting thought for them."

"Ha! They're more worried about all the people we get to prank up here. Just wait 'till Hermione finds out what I did to Bathilda Bagshot!"

"Isn't she the one who wrote A History of Magic?"

"You bet."

All of a sudden, George smirked.

"You know…Hermione always talks about this one guy…a Billy Shakespeare…"

And as they walked away from the Mirror and into the beautiful world that had opened up before them, Fred knew that his Twin had decided to stay.


End file.
